Long Vitreous Poems
Long Vitreous Poems. Below are the most popular long Vitreous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vitreous poems by poem length and keyword.
Indonesian folklore and Brazilian god An Puch are in agreement
moldavite, a vitreous silica projectile glass is the remnant of an invasion.
sky people from the Tyraxious Galaxy
left it as a clue when they took the Mayans
dispelling beliefs that Mayans were killed out by disease or an earthquake.
emerald tablet which is here today has mystical powers understood by….
a seventh daughter of the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter
this crucial tablet fell from alien space ship as it left with the Mayans
if we are to transform into the kindest, purest humans we can be.
until we unlock the secrets and memories of the moldavite tablet
the earth will continue to have a struggle with strife, disease and war.
spiritual beings are unlocking our minds all the time, to elicit change.
knowing when we understand, we will all become one.
because one equals won.
A digit grazes the scarred timber,
Rain hammers cadences no soul can limber,
A dog yawns, ventral flanks agleam, blood-warmed,
The rhythm coils beneath decrepit chairs,
It lingers where audacity desists.
Vapor spirals from a fissured chalice rim,
A glance cleaves rooms, precise, austere, and grim,
Footfalls arrest mid-stride, corridors dim,
The rhythm throbs within suspended hush,
And fractures silence into crush.
Sun shatters vitreous panes to glittering shards,
Shadows bow like cadavers, beneath guards,
Leaves tremble, winged ordnance of belief,
A bee alights, ponderous, rupturing bloom,
The rhythm burrows, roots in tenebrous gloom.
Children’s shoes percuss the stone—floorboards scream,
Laughter fractures, denting tongue and tooth and dream,
Wind lacerates a scarf—a violent gleam,
The rhythm enumerates the bruises latent,
It reckons the weight unbidden, corrodent.
Respiration escalates, arrests, then cascades with iron grace,
Ink bleeds, veins across the open page’s face,
RHYTHM pulsates inside the unclaimed void of space,
It excavates body, mind, and skeletal frame alike,
And leaves us denuded where all pulses strike.
Even silence convulses.
My eye produced a floater
And although it felt quite weird,
It wasn’t quite as dangerous
As I, at first, had feared.
The vitreous inside the eye
(A jelly-seeming goop)
Becomes, as we grow older,
Less like Jello, more like soup.
Then little teeny fibers
Clump together in your eye,
Casting shadows on the retina
As they go drifting by.
A floater’s shape can vary
So it’s no surprise that mine
Resembled, like a pencil stroke,
A skinny curvy line.
It danced across my vision
From the left side to the right,
Interfering with my reading
And imbuing me with fright.
Though the doctor called it normal,
For it happens as we age,
I don’t need a new reminder
That I’m at that later stage.
Drowning in the depths of despair
Their waves of guilt and impotence
Thundering through his brain
The roar drowning out
The anguished pleas
Of family and friends.
Trapped within the unscalable heights
Of torment
Walls rendered impenetrable
By his tortured deafness
His mind thrashed
For a way of escape.
Born of the gilded generation
This doomed Icarian youth
Lured by the amber flame of a vitreous sun
And beaten down by mental strain
Listened for the approaching whistle
And stepped lightly into the void.
The windscreen thump
The driver's startled and pallid face
The screech of brakes
The acrid stench of scorching flesh
And the line at a standstill.
Once the wreckage was cleared
Left behind were the wounds
Lightly to crust over
But beneath, the ever gaping wound
That will never heal.
Just graze the surface
And the pain and questions
Come flooding back.
Lunging forward a stab to the heart,
vitriol hurled at an unsuspecting soul.
A sarcastic word or comment, thrown in jest,
tearing flesh, leaving a gaping hole.
I was only joking, ha ha, wasn't that fun?
he says to no one.
Why are you hurt?
They're only words you know,
letters put together as one.
Intentional or not, caustic words will burn,
stinging speech cannot be unstung.
Hurtful songs, once sang, cannot be unsung.
Playing the dangerous game of sarcasm,
is like shooting words in derision.
Vitreous feelings are shattered,
only causing hurtful division.
Sarcasm is not innocent child's play,
it bites, it leaves marks, that forever may remain.
Think before you speak there are always consequences to hurtful speech!
John Derek Hamilton November 18,2015
"Home is Where the Heart Is"
Savages
behind closed doors
Civilised
but wild animals
sharpening claws
Humanity
tries to escape itself
can’t run away
from finding
"TRUE HOME"
behind closed doors
Now opening windows
fresh air
escaping shadows
Legs splayed and arms wide
breathe
"LIFE"
in for once,
we are empty vessels
noisy prisoners
in our own skin
Soul seeking Soul
peers through
the vitreous humour
99% water, salty
the Soul swims
through an ocean
towards the aqueous perimeter
facing the clear shallows
there the
"LIGHT"
penetrates the space
between the lens
like royal jelly
the Soul stands
it begins to sing
wobbling behind
the retinas reflecting
a Blue Sky
bit by WASP
kissed vehemently
in the heart
the stinging barb fixed,
Love, like a virus,
pumps the relevance
of existence
Crimson
through
Violet Blue Green rivers
Home is where the Heart Is
the hornets’ nest broken
rebirthed, awoken
wet wings spreading
unfurling in lock-down
velocity rattles
the Normals,
the civilised
wild animals
sharpening claws
a Soul
escapes the hive
dripping honey
like a Bee
pollinating white sheets
towards the Sun
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
“Home is Where the Heart Is” / The Chameleons
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOl9lohiMP8
1. The 'Vitreous Humour'
2. WASP
"Home is Where the Heart Is" / The Chameleons, Lyrics
https://genius.com/The-chameleons-home-is-where-the-heart-is-lyrics
https://visioneyeinstitute.com.au/eyematters/the-vitreous-humour/
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/all_that_is_seen_and_unseen_1223436
When all squabbles and wars shall cease
As for the complete world, we will create peace
Individuals ought to be more socially adept,
not scolding one another for being incorrect.
Contemplation involves ample guidance,
and eradicates our pretentious contrivance
We might also switch the soul's floodgate
Recognizing that we harvest what we create.
War arises as a struggle for power and land
People at times just need a helping hand
Avoid self-interest and under-mount sinks,
And pleading for humanity to peace winks.
Kindred children are resilient and vitreous
Loss of candor led them to become igneous
We might limit our focus to pursuing peace,
Our voice ought to reflect love, not decease.
My spiritual self serves as my divine guide,
Seeking understanding is a process inside
I buried my treasured self hidden within,
where it will be safe against earthly sin.
I place my trust and faith in the Lord above,
Who has convinced me of the eternity of love?
and perseverance that leaves doubts behind,
I aim to induce peace by myself, but inside.
We should all aspire to coexist in peace,
People suffer when there is such a decrease
because it is profoundly ingrained inside,
With our peace, we are inextricably tied.
Written: January 29, 2023
Finding Peace Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
follow the poolside shadows
Venus of Delphi
daughter of bitter waves
peek through the peephole
of my glaucous thorax
open your byzantine eyes and
spurn your locomotor ataxia
one glance at our vitreous hands
– a sight for blind sore eyes
one brush of our riveted lips
– gone astray in malformations
one ponderous confession later
– immaterial as a shadow of the lash
let the weeping corpuscles lie
swarm and jostle in the grotto
rattle and blather away our days
I’ll wait for your recriminations
fall asunder under your touch
fastidious in my entomology
let the bouquet glide downstream
the scytheman is still in his kingdom
then we rejoice in endless daze
the lingering beaten with bravura
Little children don't you know,
You are your parent's blessings
Their accomplishments are mainly because of you
Little children don't be fooled
Your parents adore and love you
Little children get up and go to school
So that you won't be abused, used or fooled
Little children will grow and soon you too will be old
For I too was once young and now I have children of my own
To age and be blessed to see them grow is truly a blessing
To be blessed with three
To have a son whose heart is as pure as gold
To have daughters whose thoughts are as white as snow
To love them, to carry them, to nurture them
To protect them and call them my own is truly a blessing
A son now a man as strong as an OX
Daughters kind and vitreous awaiting their Grooms
Father, how time has led me to believe
That all children are definitely their parent's blessing.
Within the shadow of the crystal spires,
Where plains are painted by the frozen fires,
The field-logs track a monument of mass:
The heavy monarch of the golden grass.
Magnatropis vitreus is cataloged and known,
A living fusion of the quartz and bone,
A mountain walking on a six-fold frame
Of polished obsidian that no tool can tame.
Its segmented chassis, wide and heavily set,
Is wrapped in a translucent exoskeleton net,
A diamond-hard carapace, shimmering clear,
Through which its strange organs and vitals appear.
Its blood is a coolant of sapphire sheen,
Pulsing through valves that are easily seen,
While its eyes are bright clusters of compound gems—
Red ruby lenses on low-slung stems—
That do not track distance or predatory flight,
But map out the currents of deep quantum light,
Perceiving the drift of the space-time strand
As it sweeps through the grass of the perfect land.
Yet this titan of armor and crystalline skin
Is not built for malice, for war, or to win;
Its purpose is vital, a biological gear
That stabilizes the local biosphere.
Along its ribbed flanks, where the plates interlock,
Are rows of deep pores carved like vents in a rock.
It breathes in the nitrogen mists of the night,
The volatile vapors that choke out the light,
And filters the toxins through chambers of stone
Deep in the vaults of its vitreous bone.
With every slow breath of its massive domain,
It breathes out sweet oxygen over the plain,
A massive, organic, atmospheric pump,
Clearing the air with each heavy-set thump.
As it browses the plains where the light-flora grows,
It crushes the minerals left by the snows,
Its six grinding hooves tilling silicate sand
To scatter the nutrients across the ground,
A peaceful leviathan, quiet and grand,
It is the gardener-beast as it moves around.